by Sarina Bowen
“Jojo, don’t take this the wrong way,” Ethan had said, patting me on the knee. “But weed is not your friend.”
After our conversation, I had eaten an entire sleeve of Pringles. The inside of my nose smelled like pot and dehydrated potato for a week. But at least the marijuana-induced wisdom stuck with me. The random hookups slowed to a trickle when I finally noticed that my “fuck the emptiness away” strategy wasn’t working all that well.
Now, lying in the grass in Maine, smelling the lilacs and the lake water, I felt unsettled. No—it was worse than that. The idea of loading up on the bus and leaving Maine for another five years made me feel positively unhinged.
“Breakfast in forty-five,” Ethan said. “And I’m still making you a picnic lunch for noon, right?”
“Right. Thanks,” I said, peeling myself up off the grass. How was I even going to survive until noon?
Six
Kira
By ten o’clock in the morning, I’d already taken two walks with Vivi, read seven picture books, and made a beautiful quiche with a whole-wheat crust and caramelized onions.
Who knew a morning could last for five years?
And as I rolled out the crust for my quiche, I was reminded of all those summer afternoons when I’d cooked for Jonas Smith, aka John Smith, aka the man I could not stop thinking about.
Usually, I enjoyed my memories of him. But this morning they only made me want to throw up from stress.
“Looks good,” my father grunted, passing through the kitchen.
“Hey, thanks.” A two-word compliment from my father was rare. Money and enthusiasm had always been in short supply in this house.
“Mama?” Vivi tugged on the hem of my shorts.
I cleared my throat and tried to sound perky. “What’s up, buttercup?”
“Hungry,” she said simply.
“I’ll bet.” The kitchen smelled of onions browned in butter. You’d have to be comatose to resist that scent. “Ten more minutes. The crust isn’t brown yet.”
“I’ll get a book,” she said.
“Great idea.”
When the quiche was finally ready, I sent Vivi to gather Adam and my father to the table. I cut a microscopic piece for myself, since my appetite was completely vanquished by the butterflies in my stomach. But Adam and Dad made loud noises of approval about my cooking, as they always did.
It was the one thing nobody ever argued about.
“Someday you’ll have your own cafe,” my father said, folding his napkin.
“Someday,” I repeated.
My dad put down his fork. “Why not soon?”
This again? “Because running a small business with a preschooler is a bad combination. I love to cook for people. But I do not want the stress of dealing with the Boston health department, hiring workers, trying to get a decent price on real estate.” I got tired just thinking about it.
“Open it here,” my father said, waving his arm in the direction of either the driveway or Main Street.
Across the table, Adam snorted. “Seriously? You stay in business, Pop, because all seven people who live here would rather pay your prices for toilet paper and beer than make the forty-minute trek to the big box stores. There’s not enough traffic for a restaurant, except in the summertime.”
“It wouldn’t have to earn all that much,” my father pressed. “She and Vivi could live here.”
“With the rowboat?” Vivi piped up, hope in her voice. She loved that freaking boat. And now I wanted to stab my father with a fork for bringing my daughter into this.
“Yeah,” my father said, smiling at Vivi.
“Why not throw in a pony?” Adam quipped, helping himself to another slice of quiche. “Kira can’t move to Maine, Dad. We don’t want this claustrophobic town for her.”
“We?” Dad growled. “What say do you have? And Maine is safer than that dirty city.”
Oh yay. More tension. Whenever the four of us were together, it was always simmering just beneath the surface. And our arguments about where Vivi and I should live were never really about real estate.
“How would you know Maine is better?” Adam grumbled. “You never visit us. You never go anywhere.”
“I can’t leave. I run a small business.”
“Every other seasonal business in New England closes for two weeks in March and two in November,” Adam pointed out. “It’s fine if you love it here and never want to leave, okay? But don’t accuse Kira of being stubborn. That’s hypocritical.”
Dad glowered at Adam, but did not argue. That didn’t mean that Adam won, of course. Rather, Dad had used up his entire allotment of conversation for the day.
“I like Maine,” Vivi said in a small voice.
“We all do,” I said quickly. “But Boston is where our friends live. We’d miss them if we moved away.” I didn’t have many friends, if I was honest with myself. I worked too hard to socialize. But I’d never bring Vivi to live in such seclusion, where the nearest preschool was probably fifteen miles away. Besides—I was just a few credits shy of graduating with a degree in primary education. I needed to live in a city, where there were jobs.
My father got up from the table, carrying his plate into the kitchen to rinse. Adam purposefully lingered at the table until my father left to check on the store. Only then did he get up to tidy up the kitchen.
At least the family drama had made me forget about my noontime meeting for a good ten minutes.
Yay.
At a quarter to twelve, I kissed Vivi goodbye, leaving her to play a hand of Go Fish with Adam. I climbed onto my old bike, first pedaling in the wrong direction to pick up a six-pack of beer at the store. “Adam shouldn’t drink so much,” my father said, writing down my purchase on our home tally.
“He’s fine,” I mumbled, feeling guilty for allowing my father to assume that the beer was for Adam. But I was too busy quaking from nerves to invent another explanation.
The stop at the store had used up a good solid two minutes. So I put the beer in the bike basket, then pedaled slowly back around the lake. I needed to get my head in the game. I’d sit Jonas down and calmly tell him what had happened. He’d listen. He’d be shocked, but then he’d be okay with it.
He just had to be.
I pedaled onward toward the Nest Lake Lodge, which was just a rustic, oversized house with beds for ten people and a big communal bathroom. Most of its customers were there for fishing weekends, or family reunions.
When I was a little girl, I’d thought of the lodge as a place that rich people rented. Now I knew better. Rich people didn’t come to Nest Lake at all. They went to Kennebunkport and the coast.
Last night I’d slept very poorly, tossing and turning in my old bedroom, thinking about Jonas Smith and the bomb I was about to drop on him. The beer bottles gave a little rattle as I went over a rock. I’d bought Shipyard’s Summer Ale, which had been Jonas’s favorite all those years ago.
Now there was a clue that I’d missed. During our summer together, he’d drunk expensive local microbrews, which was not the stuff of starving composers. I’d been too much in awe of him to stop and wonder about things like that.
The other gift I’d brought for Jonas was the photograph of Vivi in my back pocket. Our one night together had totally changed my life. And now it would upset his.
I pulled up in front of the lodge and leaned my bike against the furrowed bark of a pine tree. The ride had taken barely any time at all.
Stalling, I stared at the giant tour bus parked twenty feet away. It was purple, and there was a picture of Jonas’s face on the side.
“Ugly, isn’t it?”
I whirled around to see him watching me from the steps up to the lodge’s private dock.
“It’s okay, you can say it.” He smiled at me, crossing his arms. “When I complained, they told me that tasteful busses don’t sell records.”
I had absolutely nothing at all to say to that. In fact, I’d forgotten how to speak entirely. My mouth
was bone dry, and my knees felt spongy. To hide my growing anxiety, I reached into the bike basket for the beer.
“Oh, yes!” he said when he saw the label. “I can’t believe you remembered. I haven’t had any of this in a long time. Thanks.”
I smiled weakly as he crossed the gravel drive and took it out of my hands.
“You want this left open, Jonas?” another voice called out. I looked up to see a tall black man stepping down from the bus door, his arms around a pile of sheets and towels. “You can show her the bus,” the man offered. “It’s almost civilized again.”
“No thanks, man,” Jonas said. His chin dipped, as if he was embarrassed by the idea.
“Ethan, this is my friend Kira. Kira, Ethan is my boss.”
Ethan laughed, as if Jonas had made a joke. He tucked the laundry under one arm so that he could hold out a hand to me, which I shook. “I’m the tour manager,” he said. “It’s a really thankless job, but somebody has to do it.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said, finding my rusty voice.
“Likewise.” He gave me a big smile. “I’ll find you both with lunch,” the man said, before striding away.
“Thanks, Ethan.” Jonas held a hand out to me and cleared his throat. “You okay, Kira?”
No, I sure wasn’t. But I needed a little privacy to say my piece. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” I took his hand, and when his warm fingers clasped mine, I had to close my eyes for a moment. For five years I’d believed that I would never again feel his touch. And now having him so close to me was torture.
“Sure,” he whispered.
Holding my hand, he led me up onto the deck. The dock angled off in one direction, but we made a left turn around the front of the building, where two people were lazing on lounge chairs. Seated under an umbrella, the woman I’d seen on the beach yesterday was reading a book. She was unnervingly beautiful, with long, blond hair and a tiny silver ring in her cute nose.
A man—tattooed and scruffy-looking—lay back in the sun in the chair next to hers.
Jonas ignored them both, leading me across the deck without a word. As we approached the far end of the space, the guy called out to Jonas. “Whatcha got there? Aren’t you going to share?”
“Fuck off, Nixon,” Jonas said without a glance in his direction.
“I meant the beer.” The guy laughed.
“With you, a guy can never be sure.” Jonas stopped when we reached the end of the deck. He dropped my hand in order to take two striped towels from a neatly folded stack. “Kira, this is Nixon, our lead guitar. And Quinn, our drummer.”
They both murmured greetings, while watching me with undisguised curiosity. “Nice to meet you,” I repeated.
“Watch your step, Sweetness,” Jonas said as we approached a ramp down to the grass below.
That’s when I heard a sharp intake of breath from Nixon. “No shit,” he whispered.
I looked up to find him staring at me. In fact, now everyone was staring. “Is something the matter?” I murmured.
“Not a damned thing,” Jonas replied, reaching for my hand. He threw a glare to the guy, and then helped me down onto the grass below. There was a little beach and a lawn, and nobody nearby. “I thought we’d hang out down here,” he said, his blue-green eyes studying me.
“Okay,” I managed.
Jonas walked down toward the water’s edge, and then spread out the two generous towels to make a picnic spot. My stomach flipped as I followed him. I kicked off my shoes and sat down.
“I couldn’t wait to see this place again,” he said, toeing off his sneakers and sitting down beside me. “I never thought I’d get to see you, too. You told me you were going back to Boston.”
“I did.” I knew two-word answers weren’t going to cut it. But there was a lump in my throat the size of Maine, and I didn’t know how I was going to be able to do this. And now he was staring at me. I turned my chin to meet his gaze, and when I did, my stomach dropped. There was so much warmth in his face that it hurt me to see it.
“It’s great to see you, Kira,” he said. “I need to know everything. Did you get back together with your army guy?”
“No,” I breathed. “It didn’t work out.”
He frowned, looking almost afraid to continue. “So, do you live here again?” he asked. He glanced away, and I wondered why he looked a little unsteady himself. But then he put those beautiful eyes right back on mine. “Are you married?”
I shook my head to both questions. “I live in Boston. With my big brother.”
As I watched, a parade of emotions flickered across his face, ending with another of his potent smiles. “Adam, right?”
“That’s right,” I whispered. It was startling how well he remembered these details about me. “How about you?” I heard myself ask. “You went back to your ex-girlfriend?” Having read a few tabloids, I knew he wasn’t married. I never should have asked, but I was desperate to steer the conversation away from my life, in order to calm my fraying nerves.
Jonas flopped down on the towel, propping his face in his palm. “No, I was never doing that. But it’s still a funny story. On my trip home from Maine, I bought a trashy magazine in the Boston airport, and her picture was on the cover. Guess who got engaged to a football player while I was away?”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly.
Jonas shook his head and smiled. “I’m not. I’m only telling you that story so you’d know that breaking my little vow of chastity wasn’t a big deal.”
My neck got hot almost immediately. Because it was a big deal to me.
“Anyway, I was pretty lonely after that and did a bunch of self-destructive shit I shouldn’t have.”
I cleared my throat. “You don’t seem lonely now.”
“Really?” His eyes fell to the towel. “I have the band, and as long as I keep writing hits, they love me. But I don’t make new friends. Actually, Kira, you’re the last new friend I ever made.”
“What? Why?” That didn’t make any sense to me. “A guy like you? You’re surrounded by people who love you.”
“That’s not how it works. I’m surrounded by people who want a piece of me, so they can brag about it to their friends. Or who want money. I’m telling you this to explain why I gave you the name John Smith the summer I met you. It was the best summer of my life. And I think about you all the time.” He raised his eyes to mine, and they were the color of a tropical sea.
I swallowed hard. Then why didn’t you answer my letter? The question was on the tip of my tongue, but I knew I wouldn’t ask. It would make me sound petty. Besides—ignoring my letter was nothing compared to my whopping sin of omission.
Just then, Ethan came around the corner of the lodge holding a picnic basket.
“Thanks, man,” Jonas said, reaching for the basket.
“You guys need anything else, just holler.”
Jonas opened the basket and peeked inside. “This looks great.”
“Don’t mention it. But…” Ethan pulled out his phone. “It’s almost ten past the hour. Jonas, your single is going to debut in a minute. I told the local station you’d call them after they played it.” He held up the phone.
Jonas shook his head. “No way, man. Not now. Besides, you can’t get a connection out here.”
Ethan squinted at the phone. “I’ve got four bars.”
“Really?” Jonas met my eyes. “There’s a signal here now? That’s just plain wrong.”
“Come on, dude,” Ethan argued, folding strong arms across his stomach. “It’s a two-minute phone call. They’re making a big deal about the single, which you want, right? Quinn’s setting up some speakers to blast it right now. I thought it would be fun. And then when the song ends, this phone is going to ring. It will be the producer.”
“Quinn thought it would be fun,” Jonas repeated, sitting up quickly. “Hell, Ethan. Don’t play that shit right now. Tell Quinn that’s not cool…”
Even as he said it, the sound of a rad
io station could be heard from up on the deck. The low, even tones of the DJ’s voice floated on the breeze. “…brand new single from Hush Note, the first off their new album. And the title is Sweetness.” A drumbeat faded in under the DJ’s last words.
Jonas’s jaw got tense. “Ethan, now is not the time. Please turn that shit off.”
Ethan gave an exasperated sigh and lumbered off toward the deck.
The song continued to play, a guitar riff coming in on top of the drumbeat, and after a moment, Jonas’ voice began to sing:
It was many years ago now
That summer was my saving grace
We were so much younger then
But I will not forget her face
* * *
Goosebumps began to crawl up my spine. And then the chorus made my heart absolutely stutter.
* * *
Sweetness…
I let the good one get away
Wherever she is, I pray she’s okay
My only sweetness
* * *
Sweetness. That’s what Jonas used to call me.
Suddenly there didn’t seem to be enough oxygen on the beach. Maybe it was the song, or maybe it wasn’t. All I knew was that there was pressure in my chest, and there was no way I could sit still anymore.
“Hey now,” Jonas said as I struggled to my feet. “Kira, I’m sorry. I should have warned you about the song. Timing has never been good to us.” He stood up to face me, his eyes clouded with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. As if Jonas were the one with secrets.
Fighting the taste of bile low in my throat, I took a couple of steps away from him, towards the back of the lodge, away from the people and the music. A split second later, I could feel him following me.
Panicking now, I turned and said the only thing I could think of. “Wait!” I cried.
He froze, surprise on his face.
I still felt as if I couldn’t breathe. “I’m…” How to explain? “I feel panicky.” I turned my back to him and continued toward the trees. There was no path, but I crashed through the underbrush until I found my bike against the tree. I grasped it like a life boat, tossing a leg over and sliding onto the seat. My feet found the pedals, and I pushed off and sped away.
